And the man asked me if I had Bluetooth. In another lifetime these might be fighting words. My teeth aren’t looking all that great come to think of it.

I could be at Chumley’s tonight and stagger out onto Bedford and Barrow, past the captain’s daughters burning a light in the window of the townhouse that no one can afford. Past the ghosts of the paved over cobblestone from a lifetime of fish markets and whores. Up to an overpriced studio above gaymart to sleep through generations of cockroaches living in the plumbing of the history of the world “before the drywall.” And the filth of history comes and greets me and whispers in my ear “come and follow me.” I am filth. I am the past and the future. Escape with me to the iron of the midnight world and I won’t tell you the secrets of my world, the real world of my ken.

But then the truth of this life comes crashing down. Some shit from the real world has to start talking to me about media and his bullshit background… as the current woman of my dreams heads for the hills in a late model Chrysler of Chevy or something, out of my life and into the void of hell, my fucking hell. My hell that I have made for myself. Because it’s so comfortable.

Still they burred my heart I a shallow grave the day they tore old Beale Street down.

Then this guy tells me that he’s a guitar player. He can’t be all without soul. Between the rattling of the strings and the heart that sings.

The true love of my life lies waiting somewhere between here and the pit of the red line.

And this girl, this beautiful Italian Jewish princess walks in, circles the bar, and sits down by herself in the nether-regions of polished wood. But it can’t be by herself. I wave, like a wave from the titanic as the last lifeboat leaves the rigging and the whine of the ropes hangs above the salty mist that no one will remember. I smile. Ask her to sit next to me with a drag of the chair and a knowing nod. I’d just like to talk to her. She’s young and vibrant. I’m beyond my pay grade. She motions to the chair next to her asking me to come sit next to her. I laugh and tell her that I’m to damn comfortable and lazy to move. Moments later a bleached blonde tee-shirt guy from the suburbs joins her world. She’s mesmerized. I’m amused. But the curls hang down like the mist hanging from the windows in my youth. And he amazing thing is as much as she’s wrapped up into him, he’s paying more attention, in his mind, to me writing this shit. I have no idea if it’s about the keyboard or this aging skin. I think it’s about this aging skin. Sad. I’d love to know what makes her tick. Seeing her naked wouldn’t be all that bad. It would be pretty cool actually. But his testosterone induced tee-shirt angst is overcoming the passage to her heart. I just can’t stand it. But I always do stand it.

I wish Robin would find that number on the card that I gave her and call me. She put in in her back pocket, or in the trash. But she did hold her hand over the inverse curve of the business end of her lovely blue jeans. Looking for her wallet, or her heart, or someone else’s number or the rectangular outline of my dreams of her object of desire.

Salsa is playing with her hair and leaning forward to let Mr. tee shirt know that she is the willing receptacle of her passion, at this moment. Holding hands outstretched to the vision of her desire. She washed her hair today. She cocked her head. He cocked something… but it wasn’t in her direction.

The guy next to me talks sports like it’s the new religion. I knod like I understand. I understand none of it but I do know that the smell of the ocean waves waits for me like a newborn virgin. Old from the beginning of days, yet ever new from the spray of newborn life.

Still underneath her purple shirt and the curling locks of her mane the strap of her bra cuts across her arms and shoulder as she tosses her hair and rubs her eyes and throws her best smile. Desperate for something she can only dream about; whispers across her neck from a stranger. With the flick of a wrist that the cocking of a glass that only surrenders to the dreams of another life. Have you noticed that “cocking” is a word I’m using a lot. Sad.

But the sun has set long ago. And any hint or gold in her hair is only a memory of a life that has passed. Touching and thrusting towards each other. Laughing because it’s the only thing comfortable, chafing like a new pair of underwear. Yet he still takes time with the razor. As the vanity rises it’s not as important as the love for his flesh and the blood that keeps his in tune. The weights that keep him happy with his self control, and it can’t make him alive to his own death.

Touching the chair. Pointing the finger like a penis with a fingerprint. She’s waiting and wanting. He has no freaking idea. I’m running out of ideas.

The curls lay across her brow. The eyes of lie and life light up from the flames of desire and boredom. Pour another beer and take it to your lips. You’ll never love me. I’m only using you doe, it’s gotta’ be doe. What the fuck.

The smell of the sea awaits me on my walk home, but it always has. I think I may love you. Please find me on the salt air fish breeze sandy beer can ashtray tourist trap. Only Django Deinhardt waits for me, listless on a hard drive from Best Buy. Bye Bye.